Cain was going to catch him and kill him…slowly.
“Cainnech, careful!” Father Timothy called out.
“I think I hit him,” Cain called back. “Amish!” he shouted to his second in command. “Keep the men still.”
He looked overhead at the web of branches. There didn’t appear to be anyone else. He needed to be certain, and to have a closer look at the assailant’s perch.
Slinging his bow over his back, he reached the tree and used his axe to begin climbing.
When he reached the desired branch, he pulled himself up and looked in the direction of where his arrow should have landed. He spotted it jutting from the trunk. Attached to it was a piece of cloth torn from the bastard’s cloak. He yanked the arrow free and replaced it in his quiver and then examined the cloth. It was dyed in the colors around him.
Clever, he thought as he lifted his gaze for the first time to the branches around him. How many more of these enemies were there?
He went still as his eyes began to focus on the ropes tied to branches. They were everywhere. Everywhere he looked. The bastard was cutting them as he and his men moved beneath him. If he hadn’t tried to kill Cain and missed, he would not have been spotted and fled.
They never would have made it through the forest.
His blood went cold. This was too elaborate. There had to be more than one person here. He squinted into the branches. Would he even see them? He barely saw the one who shot at him. He listened for any sounds of things moving in trees. There wasn’t any, not a single bird stirred. He should have been listening for such sounds or the lack of them earlier. Nine of his men might still be alive.
He looked down at Father Timothy and shook his head. So much for an easy siege. According to the priest, Lismoor had no guard, no lord. It was the reason he’d volunteered Cain and his men to the king. Take Lismoor for the Bruce and then go to Whitton for some rest. This wasn’t supposed to be difficult.
Now it was war.
He climbed down to tell the others what he found. “The ropes must be cut to release the traps. With the bastard oot of the way, there shouldna be any more trouble.” He stopped for a moment to accept a small cloth from Father Timothy and pressed it to his bloody cheek. “I dinna think there are any more of them.”
A low murmur rose from the men. Father Timothy spoke what they were all asking.
“One person did all this? Cainnech look.” He stepped over something and called out to the men to stand behind the trees. When they did, he hacked at something in the deep grass and arrows flew. At least a hundred soared outward into the meadow.
Cain paled. He knew it seemed impossible. “We’ll see,” he vowed. “Keep yer shields raised and yer eyes on the ground. I will meet up with ye all at the edge of the forest.” He turned again for the trees.
“What do ye mean to do?” Father Timothy called out to him.
“I mean to see where this leads. If it leads to a village or a castle, I mean to take it and draw the assailant oot.”
“Cainnech, we dinna take villages,” the priest gently reminded.
Cain stopped and turned back to him. Aye, Cain had sworn never to kill villagers. But the priest knew he had a black heart. It went along with the name, though Cain had never known the story of the murderous son of Adam and Eve until Father Timothy had read it to him when he was nine. “Father,” he said, his voice resonating with authority. “I will know who is responsible fer our men’s deaths.” He already knew who was responsible for their lives. He was. “And then I will put an end to his.”
He didn’t wait another moment but climbed back up the tree and moved cautiously away.
On his way around branches and planks, he surveyed the ropes and how they led through the intricate web of branches and leaves to the other side of the woods, where spiked boulders and long, sharp pikes hung waiting for release. The culprit may have been alone today, but he’d had help building all of this, planning it all as if they were expecting Cain and his men. How? Who was it? An English general he’d defeated in battle? Who lived in Rothbury?
He would find out soon enough, he thought as he came to the edge of the forest. He stood in the branches and looked down at a village spilling over the strath and a small castle on a hill in the distance.
He peered down at his men and then took one last look around for the culprit before he climbed down and joined the others.
“I dinna know which way he went,” he told them, “but, mayhap, someone in the village knows.”
Without waiting for anyone to object, he leaped onto his waiting mount, led to him by Father Timothy, who opened his mouth and then shut it again when Cain rode away.
The villagers were going to help bury his men whether they wanted to or not. He’d kill any who refused, or refused to help him find the assailant. He didn’t care what Father Timothy believed about attacking villages, or that he quietly agreed.
Someone was going to pay.
He was the first to arrive in the village, the first to notice that something didn’t feel right.
No one was here. Had the village been abandoned? Were the villagers hiding in the forest?
They searched every house, narrowly avoiding a dozen more traps that were set off upon opening doors.
“I should burn it all down,” he ground out when Father Timothy brought his horse close. “It may draw him oot.”
“It might if there were people inside,” the priest remarked calmly. “But this place is deserted, Cainnech. It has likely been this way fer the last four years.”
“Why d’ye say that?” Cain asked, his interest piqued. What did Father Timothy know?
“Sir Giles d’Argentan,” the priest said, looking around.
“Ye said he was dead,” Cain reminded him with a clip of annoyance in his voice.
“He is. The Norman knight served under King Edward and gave up his life at Bannockburn rather than flee with the king.”
“Aye,” Cain remarked. “I know the story of England’s hero. Are we certain of his death? Does he have brothers wantin’ to avenge him?”
“Aye, we are sure. Commander Lamont’s regiment took him down. As far as his kin,” Father Timothy told him, “he has no brothers. I know little aboot him, but whoever is responsible fer what happened today knew we were comin’. He must have heard Duncan’s pipes last eve and planned his attack.”
Cain his shook his head. “This took time to plan and put together.” He narrowed his eyes on the village. “There were people here and they helped. Fer that, they will now lose their homes.”
“Cainnech.” The priest turned to him, his large, brown eyes, pleading—and filled with determination. “Ye have agreed to go to Whitton to pray fer yer sins. Will ye add more to them now?”
Cain laughed softly to himself. How much more proof did Father Timothy need before he would admit the truth? “Yer God obviously doesna want to hear from me, Father.”
“Ye are still alive, so I would disagree,” the priest replied quietly, turning back to the houses before them. “Dinna burn the village, Cainnech. Do this fer me. I ask little of ye.”
Cain cast him his darkest scowl. The priest told the truth. He usually did what he wanted without asking. This time he did ask though—and for what? To save some abandoned dwellings to appease his God, who seemed bent on killing Cain?
“Verra well,” Cain murmured, then gritted his teeth with disgust at his own heart and the softness in it for the old man beside him. “But ask no mercy from me when we catch this bastard.”
He turned his horse to face his men. “To the castle!”
They followed him to the fortress on the hill, its keep and high, seemingly deserted battlements set against the backdrop of darkening clouds.
They approached the curtain wall slowly. If anyone were inside, they had to already know the Scots were here, yet Cain and his men met no opposition. There were no traps attached to the stone archways leading into the inner bailey, no guards patrolling the walls. Like t
he village, the castle appeared to be deserted.
A few of his men muttered things about ghosts and crossed themselves. Even Father Timothy seemed uneasy.
They climbed an outside staircase next to a short, stone walkway that led to the high, square keep. They came to a set of heavy doors and on Cain’s command, they burst through them and into the keep’s great hall. They immediately made formation, shields up, axes and short-swords held before them at the ready.
Cain looked around. The walls were bare of tapestries. Tallow candles were impaled on tall, vertical spikes and held in loops secured to the walls. Bowls of oil lamps were suspended in rings and from stands, and a hearth was built against a hooded wall. None of it was lit. Dismantled trestle tables were stacked in the rushes.
The fresh rushes.
No ghosts here. Senses piqued, Cain broke up the men into four groups to search the entire castle, including the small towers, and secure it.
“If anyone is found,” he commanded while Amish lit their torches, “bring them to me.”
“D’ye mind if me and the men bring him back in more than one piece?” his second asked. The men behind him nodded and chimed in about what they wanted to do to the man who killed their comrades.
“Bring anyone ye find to me alive and able to answer my questions,” Cain warned them. “If anyone ye find is guilty of killin’ our men, ye can all have him and bury him in as many pieces as ye like. Until I speak with them, ye will lay a hand on no one. Is that understood?”
The men all nodded and had a look at their shields or around at the bare walls—anywhere but at the raw strength in his gaze. They knew he would let justice be carried out for their fallen friends. He would face a ghost to do it.
With nothing more to say, and even less time to lose, Cain set off toward the northern end of the keep with his group.
If their forest assailant lived in this keep, chances were there would be a sign of him. Like the fresh rushes. He wanted to catch the bastard. Nothing would stop him.
Rooms connected to other rooms through narrow archways and short stairwells. Each bed in every room they entered was nearly stripped bare. Dust had settled on empty chests and trunks and basins were dry. There was not a sign of anyone to be found.
Save for the last chamber they entered. It was the main solar, where the lord of the castle usually slept. The quarters were divided by a wood partition into a bed chamber and a sitting room. The bed was one of the finest Cain had seen and certainly nothing he had ever slept in before. Carved wood with four posters, it was set high off the floor, with hangings draped from a frame suspended from the ceiling beams. Like the others, almost every linen and item of clothing was gone. But there was no dust on the furniture and atop a tall, polished wooden chest was a hair comb.
Cain held it up and uncurled a long, dark hair from its alabaster teeth.
He looked at the hair and held the comb up to his nose. The faint scent of some kind of flower filled his nostrils.
“Father,” he said in a low voice and looked up from the hair. “Did d’Argentan have a sister?”
Deep in the belly of the keep, in the dungeon where once were held enemies of the king, a small door concealed in the wall began to move. It had been moved many times before.
A silver head peeped into the dungeon. “My lady?” Sir Richard whispered, exiting the small doorway. “My lady, where the hell are you?”
Chapter Three
Cain stood on the high battlement wall of Lismoor Castle, formerly owned by the d’Argentans. Now, it had been claimed by Cain for King Robert. He spread his gaze over the strath to the village drenched in the golden light of the setting sun. Was their enemy hiding in one of the houses? He should have burned them all down. He still might.
The search of the keep and the surrounding area had turned up little. The assailant had not been found. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. But tomorrow was a new day. Cain wouldn’t have his men wandering about in the dark and stepping into a trap—or whatever else the culprit had waiting out there.
Where was he? Who was he? Was he even a he at all? It couldn’t be a lass who had waged war on his men today—running and leaping through the trees, almost killing him.
Father Timothy didn’t know of any women related to the deceased previous owner.
Cain shook his head at himself. What was he thinking? A lass. He was a fool. An exhausted one. That was why he was allowing his thoughts to ponder madness. He laughed softly into the cool, heather-scented breeze.
How long had it been since he’d even spoken to a woman? Six months? Over a year since he’d lain with one. Hell, he didn’t have a permanent bed. Most nights, he slept beneath the stars close to where he would be fighting the next day. He’d given up comfort and desire for familiarity.
He closed his eyes as the haunting echoes of men crying out in death returned yet again to plague him.
He was seven years old during the battle of Falkirk, when Edward I and his troops defeated the Scots, led by William Wallace. He watched the slaughter of his countrymen as the Scot’s bowmen and finally the schiltrons, armed with their shields and long pikes, were killed. When he had to walk among the dead and dying and drive a post into the bloodstained ground to mark an English body that needed retrieving, he vowed to avenge his kin and his countrymen someday.
And he had. He’d killed thousands of English since that day, including the men he had lived with for eight long years. His homestead in Invergarry was once again his. Berwick was back in the hands of the Scots where it belonged. He’d helped Robert win his wars. He’d taken back his home and killed the men who had taken it from him. Was it enough? Enough for watching them kill his father…and later, his mother? For seeing them carry away his wee brother Nicholas? For watching Torin run before they took him as well? He longed to be free of the English, free of the shackles, though they were made of memories and not iron.
Was it enough for all the years of beatings and being ordered about? Of defying an enemy army with just a priest at his side?
“Commander?”
Cain turned at the sound of Amish’s voice. His second was holding an old man by the collar. An old man Cain did not know.
“Who is this?” he asked softly, turning to fully face them. He knew immediately this couldn’t be the one who fled through the trees today. The man was older than Father Timothy.
Cain didn’t reach for his axe. If the stranger made a move, he’d be dead before he drew his next breath.
“He is—”
“I am Richard,” the old man said, straightening his shoulders and gathering his mettle, “the steward of Lismoor.”
Amish yanked the man by the collar to silence him. “He was found exitin’ the dungeon.”
Cain raised a curious brow. “There is a dungeon?” He crooked his mouth at the steward when Amish nodded. “Perfect.”
He pushed off the wall and closed the gap between them. The man looked up at him with faded, guarded, blue eyes. The mettle he’d gathered moments ago shrank until he finally looked away.
“Richard, the steward of Lismoor,” Cain said in a deep, deadly voice. “Ye will spend the night in the dungeon. In the morn, ye will be handed over to my men to do with as they please. After that, whatever remains of ye will be scattered aboot the village—or ye can sleep in a bed tonight and yer life will be spared.” He rested his hand on the steward’s shoulder and led him to the edge of the wall. “All ye have to do is tell me what I wish to know.”
“I will tell you what I can, Sir.”
“And also what ye canna.” Cain tossed him a smile tinged with malice and led him around the perimeter of the wall. Richard wasn’t the man he was looking for but, perhaps, the assailant was out there watching the castle, seeing a man he knew in the hands of his enemy. Perhaps, he might try to do something about it.
“Whose steward are ye?” he asked.
“Sir Giles d’Argentan’s, Sir.”
“He is dead. Is he not?” Cain asked, w
alking him around and looking out over the land.
“He is. Everyone has left, save me.”
Cain turned to face him, his brow arched in doubt. “Everyone?”
Richard did not blink. “Aye, everyone.”
Cain’s smirk grew wider. “Then ’twas ye in the trees this morn?”
A faint glint of fear mixed with anger shot through the steward’s eyes. He knew something.
“No. ’Twas not me,” he told Cain in a remarkably steady voice. “’Twas Alexander de Bar, my lord’s cousin. He came here after Bannockburn. He took care of the villagers. They accepted him as their lord and did as he asked in exchange for his protection.”
“What did he ask them to do?”
The old man glanced toward the village. He likely didn’t realize that regret and guilt were shadowing his eyes.
Mayhap he did because he blinked back to his stoic expression. “He asked them to help him construct traps, and then he asked them to leave.”
“And his guard?”
“He had no guard, Sir.”
Cain listened while the steward told him about this cousin of the d’Argentans who had taken over Lismoor with Edward’s consent, and his passion for revenge against the Scots.
When the old man was done, Cain knew many things about de Bar and one thing about the steward. He wasn’t being truthful. Richard wanted him to believe he was so loyal to the d’Argentans that he’d remained on at Lismoor to see to everything after his lord was killed. Judging by the ease with which he spilled everything he knew about de Bar, Richard held no loyalty to him—so why was he so afflicted that he had to struggle to keep his composure? It was as if he were protecting someone else. But who? Who else could have done this if not de Bar?
Cain didn’t have much to go on save a sweetly fragranced comb and a long hair, both found in the main solar in the keep. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He refused to believe a lass had anything to do with such a savage day.
The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection Page 84